


The Game That We Play

by rotrude



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Action & Romance, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Spies & Secret Agents, Dubious Consent, M/M, MI5 - Freeform, mission, morality issues, prospective dub con
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-01
Updated: 2015-02-01
Packaged: 2018-03-10 01:40:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,758
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3272045
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rotrude/pseuds/rotrude
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For Merlin 'lie back and think of England' is about to become less of a stock phrase and more of a reality given the order the higher echelons of Five have just relayed to him. Colleague Arthur Pendragon has something to say about the lenghts people like them have to go to for Queen and country.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Game That We Play

**Author's Note:**

> My thanks go to the people from the GSD_Fandom chatroom, 'cause they're an inspiring and fun bunch who keep the fanfic juices going and get me to finish stuff. Hugs to you all.

**Millienniul Hotel, Mayfair, London**

Rain batters the road, slicks the asphalt beneath to a shine. The tarmac glitters like diamonds, like moonshine. Big fat drops pelt umbrellas and awnings, ping against the windows, smudging the view to a halo of condensation brightened by the reflection of the lights from outside. 

Merlin steps back from the window, grabs the shirt from the bed. It's a fine shirt, smooth to the touch, crisp, pristinely white. Mother of pearl buttons line the front. Merlin's opening them one by one when the door flies open and shakes shut in its frame.

“You can't do it,” Arthur thunders, striding over to him like he means business, as if he owns the world and he's sure of his place in it. His mouth puckers into a pout and his shoulders, though squared back, form a tight line. “This is the one order you say no to.”

Merlin arches an eyebrow, drops the shirt over the back of a chair, and goes to the mini bar. He pours a measure of whisky into a squat clean glass cut into angled shapes. “I have no ice.”

“I haven't come here for a drink,” Arthur says, grabbing the glass Merlin's extending to him and slamming it back on the dresser.

“No.” Merlin observes the whisky spillage, rakes it up with a fingertip, sucks on it. “You've come to play nurse maid.”

Arthur interposes himself between Merlin and the chair, effectively stopping him from picking up his shirt. “No, I'm not doing that. I'm talking about there being a line.”

“And that's where you draw it?” Merlin knows that he shouldn't, but can't really refrain from asking that, from questioning Arthur's attitude, Arthur's certainty he knows how to lead, how to deal with any situation pertaining to their job. “We've killed and lied and virtually blackmailed; we've watched men die. And yet, funnily enough, you draw the line at me sleeping with someone to pump them for information.”

Arthur looks like he's been punched in the face. Merlin can't tell whether it's because he's called his sense of morality into question or because he's taunted him with the reality of the mission. Either way Arthur's distaste clearly etches itself on his face, finds an outlet in the lines that crimp his forehead and in the sharpening of his jaw. “Yes! We're MI5 operatives, Merlin, not--”

“Not what, Arthur?” Merlin raises his voice, widens his eyes. “Not what?”

“They've asked the impossible of us time and again, the whole range, and we've always done it,” Arthur says, shoulders sloping, air issuing out of his lungs in one gusty exhale. “But they can't expect us to give that as well. You'd be within your rights to say no.”

“Tell me.” Merlin cranks his voice up. “Is there anything that's ever prevented you from doing your job?”

“I've always done my duty, Merlin,” Arthur says, shaking his head. “But that's neither here nor there.”

Merlin can't take Arthur's half truths. Over the two years Merlin's been working for Five, he's been a witness to Arthur's track record. “Please, Arthur, you've completed missions in the most fucked up circumstances.” Merlin counts them off his fingers. “Amman, S.I.D.H.E agents drugged you to the gills, nearly killed the hostage they'd got their hands on and yet you got the data and saved the girl. Palermo, you lost three pints of blood, maybe more, but you still got our mark, which allowed you to complete the mission and single-handedly improve the diplomatic relations between the UK and half of Southern Europe.”

“That's not the same.” Arthur grabs him by the forearm, locks his gaze on the point of contact, drops his hand. “Merlin, that's not the same. It's... It's something different you're talking about.”

“I don't see how exactly?” They've trodden the fine line between life and death so many times this seems trivial.

Arthur's cheeks hollow, his eyelids go momentarily down before flicking up again. “It's intimate. Gets under your skin.”

Merlin wonders what Arthur's opinion on sex is; he's always been so smooth, Merlin had never thought it mattered much to him before. “I've had sex plenty of times, Arthur.”

“Yes, of course.” Arthur's cheeks get a redder undertone to them. “But this is quite different.”

“Are you trying to tell me you've never done something like this, something less thab abpve board?”

“Have I been told to seduce info out of someone?” Arthur asks. “I won't say no, but I was never unwilling and it was never...”

“It was never what, Arthur!” Merlin budges past Arthur, takes a hold of his shirt, slips it on one arm at a time, doesn't bother buttoning up. “Stop treating me like a child. You're not my father, you're not my mentor and if something's good enough for you.” Merlin makes a point of meeting Arthur's eyes. “Then it's good enough for me.”

“We're talking at cross purposes here,” Arthur says, his shoulders rising, then falling back into a droop. “Forget about me. You're different from me.”

“How!” Merlin fastens his buttons, lowers the zip of his trousers till they're past his hips, tucks in his shirt. It fits him perfectly. It's tailored so that the fabric hugs his frame, contours every line and dip of his body. It seems Five doesn't scrimp on style when there's an objective in view. “Just tell me how!”

Arthur flails his hands, passes a hand through his hair as if to find an occupation for his limbs. He tugging at the root of them. When he's done, he makes as if to talk, stops, breathes hard through his nostrils. “You have more of a heart than I do.”

“Bullshit, Arthur.” Arthur is being uncharacteristically humble right now. Because Arthur's actually a brave man and his courage, which sometimes borders on self-sacrifice, comes from a different place than a need to display how gutsy he is. “You can be annoying, think you're the best at everything and god's gift to humanity, but you're also the best man I know.”

Arthur's head snaps up, his gaze softens even as he shakes his head no. “Merlin, please. Cenred King is a notorious money launderer with ties to the criminal world."

"I was briefed." He knows everything about Cenred King, his backstory, his medical redcord, likes and dislikes. "I did my homework."

"Just think of yourself first!" Arthur says.

That's exactly what Merlin can't do. Never will. “We're in a state of high alert, Arthur. You know what that means.”

“Yes.” Arthur holds his head high. “But there's other ways.”

“None as easy, Arthur.” Merlin's considered this from every angle and this is the cleanest solution. “Or that would call for as little blood-shed.”

Arthur dips his head, shakes it, makes fists of his hands. “We can allow for...”

“What?” Merlin pre-empts Arthur. “Collateral? You know that's not you, Arthur. You'd rather die than put people in danger. I know it. I've seen you in action. We've been in the fire line together.” He makes his voice soft because the last thing he wants is to lose Arthur as a friend. He doesn't want to sacrifice what they have for a fight, not over a moral call like this. Merlin doesn't even understand why Arthur's objecting. Arthur's a serviceman and he knows the deal; he's aware that dubious moral choices are part of it. His resistance now makes no sense. “People may die over this. An awful lot of them.” Arthur included. The thought he could makes Merlin's gorge rise. He'd do anything, anything, to protect Arthur. “Allow me to do something to prevent that from happening.” 

Arthur looks away as if the sight of Merlin scalds him, but then his throat works, he straightens, makes himself larger, his frame taut, and his eyes meet Merlin's. They're wider than they usually are and there's a sad light in them Merlin's never seen before. “I get why you want to do that, but--”

“My choice.” Merlin touches his hand to Arthur's arm, squeezes, lets go. “All right?”

“Yes.” Arthur shifts from side to side, compresses his lips. “Yes.”

Merlin nods, crosses the room, picks up the golden cuff links lying on the bedside table. When he fails to pin the first one in place Arthur bounds over in big strides and takes the pair from him. “Here,” he says, securing first one cuff link then the other in place. “I really don't understand how you can be allowed to carry firearms when you can't do something as simple as this.”

Though his body feels heavy, overly saturated with some kind of emotion that drenches his insides and whips his heart into racing, Merlin makes light of it, winks. “We're not all Oxbridge toffs.” 

“Idiot.” Done helping Merlin with his accessories, Arthur shoves him back. “It's a matter of simple coordination really.”

“Evidently,” Merlin says, suppressing a laugh that, in spite of the situation, he does feel deep in his guts, under his skin, and walking over to the wardrobe. 

“Of which you have none,” Arthur says, looking away while Merlin dons his evening jacket.

“I knew you'd say that.” Merlin pulls at the bottom of the garment so as to adjust its fit. “I just knew it.”

“Now you'll say I'm predictable.”

“No.” Merlin breathes out, fastening the last buttons and then puts on the bow tie he finds in his pocket. “I just know you.”

“Yeah,” Arthur says, surprising Merlin by virtue of his admission. “Yes.”

Merlin fiddles with his cuffs, tugs on them till a peek of white surfaces from under the hem of his sleeve. “I'm as ready as I'm going to be.”

Arthur narrows his eyes at him but the light in them is not harsh at all. “You look passable.”

“Mmm.” Merlin nods to himself. There's little else he can do to groom himself into good looks. Now, if he were Arthur looking hot would be much easier. “I'd better be going.”

“I'll be in the top floor suite.” Arthur's face goes still. “Listening to the radio signal.”

Merlin taps the heel of his shoe. “Let's hope the transmitter works then.”

“You know what to do if something goes haywire,” Arthur says. “You--”

“I know.” Merlin smiles a wry smile. “Field agent, remember.”

“Yeah. Right.”

“Well, then,” Merlin says, scratching at the side of his neck with a finger. His pulse is jumping about and no amount of fidgeting quells it. “I'll be going.”

Before Merlin makes the door, Arthur says, “Good luck.”

 

The End


End file.
